


In the waves (you will float)

by Issay



Category: The Originals (TV), The Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Friendship, Grief/Mourning, Loss of Parent(s), Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-29 08:35:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7677505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Issay/pseuds/Issay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Caroline blinks her tears away, sets her shoulders, and presses her lips grimly. It’s time. It’s the make or break moment, her sink or swim. She’s choking on air in this small damned town, her head full of whispers.<br/>“I don’t think I can do this now, mom,” she says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the waves (you will float)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [beautyqueenforbes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beautyqueenforbes/gifts).



> For the lovely beautyqueenforbes. I had some fun with your paralells/soulmates request, hope it at least resembles what you wanted ;)
> 
> Title taken from the song "Speaking of Truth" by Laleh.

„I don’t think I can do this,” she says slowly to the empty house, allowing the echo to repeat her words over and over again. Nothing has changed, not really. A thin veil of dust covers books and the assortment of knickknacks in the living room, sun filters through the windows, wood creaks somewhere in the attic. The air is still saturated with sweet scent of her own perfume, smell of the muffins baked two days before, flowers slowly withering in the bowl in her mother’s bedroom. Nothing has changed and yet everything is different because her mother is dead, dead and buried and even though this life she’s leading is full of miracles, Caroline can’t do anything for her mother anymore. Couldn’t do then. Can’t do now. The difference is small but somehow it weighs tons, it makes her shoulder sag and her step lose the usual carefree spring. She feels old. She feels ancient and yet not adult enough.

She’s buried her mother today.

It was a beautiful funeral, she supposes. People were crying and sharing stories about Liz, the wonderful, beloved Liz, taken all too soon, sorry, sweet Caroline, doesn’t she look so young and innocent, this beautiful daughter of Liz’s?   
She heard it all, every whisper, every syllable, poor little orphan, so young, no one to guide her. It makes her sick and so sad at the same time. It makes her feel utterly helpless so nothing has really changed, hasn’t it. She’s still as helpless and inconsequential as she was when Damon used her as his own buffet.

Caroline blinks her tears away, sets her shoulders, and presses her lips grimly. It’s time. It’s the make or break moment, her sink or swim. She’s choking on air in this small damned town, her head full of whispers.

“I don’t think I can do this now, mom,” she says, puts Liz’s badge on the living room table and goes to pack. Shoes, skirts, pants, sensible shirts and dresses, some t-shirts and a beloved hoodie she stole from Matt a whole lifetime ago. Underwear, check. Socks, check. She works as if on autopilot, hands moving on their own accord.  
She leaves the cute little sundresses and ball gowns behind. Remembers to empty the fridge of perishables, take the blood bags with her so she doesn’t have to feed while on the road. Her make-up bag ends in the suitcase too and, like it’s an afterthought, she carefully packs Liz’s favorite perfume. She remembers giving it to her mother for Christmas few years ago; it’s still the same bottle, only half empty. Liz used them only on special occasions. She won’t use them ever again.

Caroline almost curls on the floor of her mother’s bathroom and weeps. Almost. It takes more than she has to close the door behind her but somehow she does.

She throws her suitcases to the trunk of her car, waves to the neighbor who watches her like a hawk (she knows what they’re going to say, that in the next hour news of her leaving will be all over Mystic Falls. She doesn’t really care). And then she just drives.

*

She’s somewhere near Washington, DC, when she turns on her phone. It explodes with unread messages and unanswered calls; she goes through the list while getting gas. Elena and Stefan must be going out of their minds, if the amount of messages is any indication, and they’ve already sent a searching party. Caroline sighs, sadly and fondly at the same time, trying to decide who to call. No. Who to text. Someone who will understand that she needs to be alone for some time, someone who will take over and shut down her friends’ attempts of finding her and bringing her home.

_I’m ok, stop E &S_, she writes. _Be in touch_.

She hits ‘send’ and pushes the off button again. Somewhere north of where she is Damon gets a text.

*

New Orleans smells of life. It’s all around her as she pushes through a crowd of dancers, musicians, tourists and street performers. Scent of fresh, hot blood is almost too much, sound of voices bombards her senses.

New Orleans smells of death. It’s in its walls and streets, the scent of painful history and catastrophic years that are behind this city. This dark stench is everywhere, along with soft crackling of magic and scent of ozone. It smells like home and danger and everything she knows so well. Calmed by it, she checks into a small hotel in the Quarter and goes for a walk. She spends hours in Garden District, briefly remembering reading about it somewhere, in some supernatural novel she devoured when she was what? Fifteen? It feels like a century ago.   
She almost cries over how beautiful the mansions are, how magnolias bloom, how the moist air is soft and caresses her skin.  
She tries jambalaya and on a whim buys herself a pair of black lace gloves. She’s dressed in black and is the most beautiful girl on that street. Heads turn when she passes. Caroline doesn’t give a shit.

In a tiny bookshop on the corner across her hotel she buys Vampire Chronicles novels by Anne Rice and reads them cover to cover, each and every one of them, spending three days in her room, on the comfy bed, sipping blood from leftover bags. The irony is not lost on her.

She falls in love. She cries. She laughs. She grieves, grieves, grieves.

And when she’s done, she kisses the cover of the last book and goes hunting.

*

_I’m fine_ , she texts. _Reading books and staying safe. Don’t look for me._

Damon never writes back. She’s glad, she prefers it that way.

*

It’s another week before she actively starts looking for the Mikaelsons.  Caroline is smart, knows that she can’t ask questions in the supernatural community or she’ll end up in some shitty situation. Wherever Originals are, troubles follow. So after some careful visits to magic shops and making useful friends, she finds herself in a bar. It’s an ordinary looking bar, nothing that would scream “vampire hangout” but then again, Mystic Grill didn’t either and look what happened.

With a sigh, she orders some whiskey and gets another novel out of her bag. She loves the witches as much as she did vampires, though in her humble opinions those two books about werewolves sucked. Or maybe she’s just prejudiced.

“Have you read her Christian novels yet? I’ve heard they are quite decent,” asks a familiar voice and she raises her eyes from the page she was reading.  
“No, I can’t say I have. Soon, though, I think,” she answers with a ghost of a smile on her lips. “Hello, Elijah.”  
He sits at her table without asking for permission while she’s studying his face. It’s striking, really. The ageless, eternal vampire looks old and tired. She can relate.  
“I’m surprised to see you here,” she adds after a minute of silence and reaches to take a sip out of her glass. “Thought this place would suit Klaus better.”  
The Original laughs but there is no mirth in his voice.   
“Sometimes we all do things out of character, sweet Caroline. Do you want to get out of here?”  
She grabs her bag and carefully packs the book.

They walk.  
For hours, they walk in complete but friendly silence, like cordial friends who don’t need words. From time to time he points something out, like a particularly interesting shop or a beautiful building but mostly they just are. Eventually, though, Elijah starts talking. He talks about power dynamics and old enemies who once were beloved friends, he speaks of an innocent child, about old threats, family they didn’t knew they had, about life, and death, and love, and despair. About how Kol died. How their long lost sister murdered their mother. And about the love that can save all and can destroy all at the same time.  
He talks about Klaus and Caroline doesn’t know when, but their fingers tangle and suddenly they walk hand in hand. His skin is hard under her fingertips. His words are soft and kind. Klaus, apparently, hides in his rooms and paints, paints, paints and Caroline can’t help but smile fondly, thinking about her three days in the hotel room. With all of their differences, how similar they are. Elijah talks, his tale is like a flood, or maybe like a drink of cool water after a long and hot day. She holds his hand tighter, wishing she had any strength left in her to offer him.

“Lead the way,” she says eventually, after he falls silent. He knows what she means. In the last three hours or so they became quite good friends.

Night falls over New Orleans.

He leads her back to the Quarter, stopping on the way in some dark alley so she can compel herself a little snack. He waits patiently until she’s done and then gives her a white handkerchief. Always the gentleman. She chuckles.

“He’s on the roof,” he mutters when they step into the compound. Caroline smiles softly.  
“I know.”  
She isn’t in a hurry, her step is purposeful but slow, she avoids the residents but feels their presence nevertheless. Her nose catches scent of baby powder and sweet blood, and she blinks rapidly to chase away the tears gathering in her eyes. She just shakes her head and goes on. Staircase after staircase, floor after floor. Something deep in her stomach, something tight and heavy, disappears with every step closer to him.

Caroline doesn’t believe in destiny, nor does she believe in supernatural bonds or soul mates. Those things happen only in shitty romance novels. And yet there’s something warm around her heart when she sees the back of his head. He doesn’t turn around, sitting on the edge of the building cross-legged, watching the lights twinkle.   
“I told you I didn’t want company,” he says, still not turning towards her.   
“I thought that for me you might make an exception.”  
He finally looks, astonished and surprised and happy and not fully understanding, as she drops down on the floor next to him. Klaus’ fingers touch the skin of her arm, slide down, towards the still gloved hand.   
“You’re real,” he decides after a moment. “Why…?”  
Lights twinkle in the distance; someone plays _Summertime_ on the street below them.   
“My mom’s dead.”  
Suddenly his arms are around her, and her face is snuggled against the soft fabric of his shirt, and the scent around her is safe, safe, safe. So she cries. She holds on to him like he’s the only one capable of grounding her – and maybe he is – and she lets go. There is no limit to her grief, no amount of tears she cannot cry. Caroline has no idea how long they’ve been sitting there when her head finally clears, when it’s easy to breathe again. He never stopped holding her, his cheek on her hair.   
“I’m so sorry, Caroline.”  
She sniffs a little, not wanting to leave his arms.   
“Thank you,” she whispers.

*

_In Big Easy. Safe. Not coming back for a while. Don’t visit plz._

*

Rain in New Orleans is beautiful, way more than in Mystic Falls. Here it’s warm and smells of things that are fresh and green and so alive. She’s in the middle of the streets when it starts pouring – not falling, pouring, she’s soaked in a matter of seconds and she laughs loudly in delight.  
It’s the first time she’s laughed since they put Liz in the ground.  
She’s wearing a strapless black dress so the rain touches the skin of her arms directly, cleans of dust and sadness. She’s a sight to behold, she knows, as she almost dances her way – no, actually dances because there’s Klaus, they were supposed to meet in this little art gallery but he’s here and suddenly they’re dancing in the heavy rain that smells of grass.

He twirls her. Someone plays saxophone in one of the small clubs, they hear the music and dance, laughing and almost stumbling on the wet cobblestone. New Orleans is magical. New Orleans is healing.

And now she understands what he meant by saying that he intends to be her last love – no one can ever give her anything more that he already gave her. Even if one day she’ll leave, he will always be the one she’ll compare others to. This larger than life Original of hers.

This love of hers.

Smiling, she stands on her toes and kisses him, and he tastes of the warm rain in New Orleans.


End file.
